Page 12 of Noel with the Mountain Man
"I'm scared," she admits. "This is fast.Reallyfast."
"I know."
"But I don't want to slow down."
"Good." I tilt her chin up. "Because neither do I."
I kiss her, and she melts against me. The pasta water starts to boil over, and we break apart laughing.
After dinner—which we eat curled up on the couch by the fire—she gets quiet. Thoughtful.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.
"Christmas." She traces patterns on my chest. "You said you don't celebrate anymore. But it's Christmas Eve. Doesn't some part of you miss it?"
I'm quiet for a long moment. "All of it,” I admit. “The lights. The music. The stupid traditions Maren loved." I pause. "She'd make me dance in the kitchen while we cooked. Every year. Same Bing Crosby album."
"That sounds perfect."
"It was." My throat tightens. "I haven't listened to Christmas music since she died. It just... it reminds me of everything I lost."
Noel sits up, turning to face me. The firelight catches in her dark hair, making her look ethereal.
"What if," she says slowly, "we made a new memory? Just a small one. Nothing that erases what you had… I would never ask you to do that. But something that's just ours."
"Noel—"
"I know it's a lot. And if you say no, that's okay. But Kyler..." She takes my hand. "You're allowed to heal. You're allowed to find joy again. She would want that for you."
The truth of it hits me square in the chest. Marenwouldwant that. She'd want me living, not just existing.
"What did you have in mind?" I ask.
Her face lights up. "I saw bags of popcorn in the kitchen."
I raise an eyebrow. “Popcorn?”
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting on the floor by the fire, stringing popcorn with a needle and thread she found in a kitchen drawer. It's ridiculous. The popcorn keeps breaking. Half of what we string, we end up eating.
But I'm smiling.
Actually smiling.
"This is the saddest garland I've ever seen," I tell her, holding up our creation.
"It's perfect." She drapes it over the mantel. "Very rustic chic."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now." She pulls out her phone. "And now, the most important part."
"Noel—"
"Trust me."
She scrolls through her music, and suddenly Bing Crosby's voice fills the cabin. "White Christmas."
I freeze.
